


Assignment: Stations ANK-M0 & 0R-PRK

by aunt_zelda



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Violence, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/pseuds/aunt_zelda
Summary: The dual-locked orbital satellite stations ANK-M0 and 0R-PRK were seldom referred to by their individual designations any longer. “Ankh-Morpork” was what residents called the place, or “the Wahoonie” if they were lower rung workers for reasons that had eluded those who’d made Drumknott’s review paperwork.There had been little else to do on the journey to the station besides prepare. Drumknott felt relatively prepared but knew that reading reports was only part of the process. Actually setting foot on the station would be another, as would meeting with his new boss, the Patrician Havelock Vetinari. He was also known as the Tyrant of Ankh-Morpork. It was said that space pirates avoided the entire sector due to his fearsome reputation. He’d nearly been assassinated by three previous secretaries, and countless other interlopers and rabble-rousers.
Relationships: Rufus Drumknott & Havelock Vetinari
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Assignment: Stations ANK-M0 & 0R-PRK

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yelp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yelp/gifts).



> Loved your sci-fi AU prompt and suddenly had the idea for interlocked stations.

The dual-locked orbital satellite stations ANK-M0 and 0R-PRK were seldom referred to by their individual designations any longer. “Ankh-Morpork” was what residents called the place, or “the Wahoonie” if they were lower rung workers, for reasons that had eluded those who’d made Drumknott’s review paperwork.

There had been little else to do on the journey to the station besides read the paperwork. Drumknott felt relatively prepared but knew that reading reports was only part of the process. Actually setting foot on the station would be another, as would meeting with his new boss, the Patrician Havelock Vetinari. Vetinari was also known as the Tyrant of Ankh-Morpork. It was said that space pirates avoided the entire sector due to his fearsome reputation. He’d nearly been assassinated by three previous secretaries, and countless other interlopers and rabble-rousers.

Drumknott had received a classical education. Orbital station politics, office organization, interpersonal communication, and a steady helping of finance and business training so he would be able to comprehend the information he was processing for his boss. In preparation for assignment to Ankh-Morpork, Drumknott had been given self-defense lessons and a battery of poison and environmental control resistance drugs.

The shuttle docked at the station. Drumknott rose and disembarked for his new home. His feet shifted as the artificial gravity of the station sank into his bones. Bay doors clicked open and slid wide to allow him into an atrium.

Raising his eyes, Drumkott saw rusting letters welded to a welcome arch. “Merus in pectum et in aquam” they proclaimed. Considering the sanitation issues on the station, Drumknott wondered if that was supposed to be a joke.

The hand-scratched old words on a nearby wall seemed more obviously a joke, though one that perplexed Drumknott. “Quanti canicula ille in fenestra?” were scrawled alongside a drawing of a man hunched over a desk with a red-eyed dog at his feet.

“Sausage! Inna bun!” yelped a disheveled man with a tray around his neck. He approached the cluster of new arrivals disembarking behind Drumknott.

Drumknott, who’d been primed for this danger, managed to dodge the man’s insistent offers of “sausages.” He noted some of his former traveling companions were not so lucky. Wincing at the thought of the night that lay ahead of them, Drumknott rounded a corner and headed for the Patrician’s office.

-

Waiting at the door Drumknott noticed several things. The ticking of some inner-workings of a nearby wall, nearly repetitive but just enough off-key to be unsettling. A holographic painting of dancing vermin. Laser-fire scorch marks on the wall, rather fresh from the looks of them.

The door to the Patrician’s office slid open. Drumknott straightened up and entered.

Modesty was not what Drumknott had expected from a purported tyrant. Yet the office was hardly more lavish than that of a successful university head. Tastefully decorated, a few items arranged at strategic locations. A desk of real wood from the looks of it, a luxury to be sure but hardly ostentatious, and behind that … the Patrician.

The man was dark-haired and slender, not quite gaunt but lean. Drumknott was put in mind of birds of prey designed for aerodynamic, violent lunges. His clothing was as modest as the office, dark fabrics well-fitted to his frame and no doubt concealing a number of weapons. He was pouring over a stack of readouts, many of which flashed in urgent color-coded importance.

Drumknott approached the desk and waited to be acknowledged.

“Rufus Drumknott, aged thirty-seven cycles. You come highly recommended by your instructors.” The Patrician’s voice was refined, rounded pronunciations that indicated a formal education from the inner planets perhaps thirty years previously.

Drumknott did not speak. Until questioned, there was nothing to say.

“This job is a demanding one. The linked stations provide a unique set of challenges. Are you prepared for difficult work?”

“Yes, sir. I look forward to the opportunity.” Drumknott honestly did. Many of his classmates had been sent to dull satellites across the Sto Asteroid Field. The stations ANK-M0 and 0R-PRK were notorious, but also an invigorating assignment.

The Patrician looked him up and down. Drumknott felt as though he was being scanned by a powerful device, swore he could feel the heat radiating from beams … and then the Patrician was back to examining his readouts.

“Your desk is in the room to the left of where you were waiting. Instructions are there.”

“From my predecessor?” Drumknott asked.

“No. He was left with little time to onboard his successor. He was airlocked after participating in an attempted coup.” All the while the Patrician did not look up.

Drumknott avoided audibly gulping.

“Do not let me detain you.”

Drumknott recognized that as a dismissal and promptly left the office.

-

Periodically in the next fortnight, Vetinari examined the camera feeds arrayed around the station to see how his new secretary was coming along.

He’d made short work of the disastrous filing situation within his first day. By week’s end he’d begun cataloging previous years of records as well as maintaining the daily influx of reports.

During his non-work hours, Vetinari observed as his new secretary wandered the levels, familiarizing himself with the areas and examining maps carefully. A thorough man, one who planned to be here long-term. These were promising signs. Vetinari had no desire to invest in the training and interpersonal preparations in someone who was counting the days until a reassignment request or seeking a large bribe and an early retirement.

On the fifteenth day, Drumknott turned towards the Shades after his shift and Vetinari inwardly sighed. Predictable, though somewhat disappointing. He knew it was a popular pastime of many inhabitants but he had hoped … never mind. Vetinari turned away from the observation feeds and scanned reports.

After four paragraphs he glanced back again. He was being masochistic, something he rarely indulged in, but the new secretary had caught his eye. 

To his surprise, his secretary was not indulging as others did in the Shades clubs. Drumknott cast an admiring glance over dancers occasionally, but politely waved off any overtures of private sessions. He tipped well, drank modestly, and left after about sixty minutes.

Fascinating. Vetinari made a note and returned to his reports, glancing over occasionally to see where his secretary went next.

After navigating the hallways and lifts, Drumknott approached a walkway that overlooked the cargo bay. There was a small observation spot Vetinari had never noticed before. A bench wedged against the wall, which gave a view to the main cargo bay and the ships therin.

Drumknott sat down, opening up a protein bar pack and chewing on it. He watched the cargo ships docking, unloading, and their cargo being sorted in the main supply bay. His posture suggested relaxation.

He returned at least three times a week. On all subsequent visits, Drumknott had a sketchbook in hand. He sketched accurate depictions of ships, cargo hauls, and bay officers at work, though his detail was on the rigid lines and curves of the ships and crates more than the people.

Vetinari smiled. If this was his new secretary’s indulgence, he anticipated that things would go swimmingly. 

Within the month, another revolution rose up and Drumknott was kidnapped.

-

Drumknott blinked as the hood was yanked from his head. They were in a lower rung of 0R-PRK, he could tell by the rivets on the wall panel.

“Class traitor!” one of the men barked, hauling Drumknott up by the shirtfront.

“Give us the codes to the upper levels and you won’t be hurt,” promised another man.

Drumknott sighed heavily and shook his head. They would have to do better than that, far better.

The big man struck him across the face and dropped him to the floor. Then he kicked Drumknott in the stomach.

“It doesn’t have to go like this,” wheedled one man, trying a new tactic. “You could join us. You’re a working man, same as us. You know how it is.”

“My loyalty is to my post.” Drumknott managed through gritted teeth. He’d been coached how to endure moderate pain, but this was verging on extreme.

“Oh really? Does his lordship treat you well? Give you your own bed, your own collar?” sneered one of the women.

“Feed you treats by hand?” laughed one of the other conspirators, a man with a scruffy beard.

“I’m not his dog.”

“Everyone’s his dog. Or his slave. Or his puppet.” The one who talked most spat. “Not us. Not anymore. The glorious revolution is here and we will rid this station of him once and for all.”

After the cheering had died down, Drumknott tilted his head. “And then what?”

“What?”

“Well, after you’ve killed him … who’s in charge? You?” Drumknott raised his eyebrows.

“Of course not!” said one, the instant the big talker said “yeah, me I guess.”

This led to a fight in which Drumknott learned a great many things. Carl was brother to Dave, who’d been going steady with Marjorie, but now Marjorie was with Kevin and Kevin didn’t even want to be here properly but he wanted to support Marjorie’s cause, and Suzette had always hated Carl and loved Dave but had settled for Carl anyways just to be around Dave, and none of them relished the thought of Carl in charge or Dave but they’d rally around Carl if given the chance. There was a mixture of jealousy and paranoia and resentment and grief bubbling up into a cacophony that had enabled Joan and George to rally them to the cause.

It wasn’t especially sophisticated, but then it didn’t need to be. The Patrician was as human as anyone on the station, and he’d die as easily as any man. In the squabbling and jockeying for power, one of them would get in a lucky shot and that would be the end of it.

Drumknott needed to tread carefully. He was only useful so long as the conspiracy proceeded and coherent people were in charge.

Fortunately the knife he kept for sharpening his pencil had been left hidden in his boot, overlooked by the amateur conspirators. It was the work of a quarter hour for Drumknott to loosen his bonds and wedge the blade into a service panel. The short-circuit plunged the room into darkness, steam expelling from the fire-suppressant systems. In the ensuing chaos, Carl and Dave ended up scuffling on the floor while their friends cheered or tried to join in.

By the time the Patrician’s guards arrived, Dave and Marjorie had already been stabbed and Drumknott was sitting forgotten in the far corner of the room relatively unharmed by the experience. His hands were trembling, but that was only to be expected: he’d never been kidnapped before.

-

After the rescue, Vetinari insisted on scheduling time off for his secretary. The man lingered in his living quarters for some time, then ventured out to his usual spot on the overlook.

Vetinari rose from his desk and went to the spot. He arrived only a few moments after Drumknott had.

Vetinari stood beside the bench. “May I join you?”

Drumknott nodded, shifting over to make space.

Vetinari sat down beside him. “This leg has never properly healed.” He tapped his left knee with his cane. “I swear when the gravity decouples between stations I can feel it.”

It was an admission of vulnerability. A glance between them indicated that Drumknott understood what the Patrician was saying to him, and why.

“You have given much to this position already.” Vetinari said. “No one would blame you if you were to request a transfer.”

“I am aware of the options available.” Drumknott’s voice was level. “I wish to stay, if you would have me.”

“I am delighted to hear you say so.” Vetinari smiled, a rare expression on his face. “Your continued service is appreciated and welcomed.”

Drumknott smiled and looked down at his sketchbook, visibly blushing at the praise.

“Why do you draw?” Vetinari asked, changing the subject abruptly in the hopes of alleviating some of the tension in the air.

“I like to keep my hands busy. Robots can reproduce copies of sketches of course, but they cannot produce them organically. I find the process … soothing. Analyzing a scene and taking it down in my own hand.” Drumknott toyed with his pencil.

“Robots don’t identify important information, to them every speck is as important as the last.” Vetinari mused. “You pick the important details. You have a keen eye.” He was not merely speaking of the sketches now.

Drumknott smiled. “Might I sketch you, sir?” he asked.

“I would be honored.” Vetinari straightened up and jutted out his chin. “Is this suitable?”

“Yes, thank you.” Drumknott began to draw.

They spent the next hour in comfortable, companionable, silence.


End file.
